Nadir Mohamed Dear Diary: ‘Hockey is their escape. And I am their only dealer’

The National Post re-imagines a week in the life of a newsmaker. Today, Tristin Hopper looks at the week through the eyes of Rogers Communications CEO Nadir Mohamed.

Monday
Only a few days after I first came to Toronto as a very young man, I was standing in a bar when an image of the Stanley Cup appeared on the establishment’s flickering TV set. I saw the eyes of everyone around me light up, and a man next to me — an old man — told me it was always his dream to hoist the Stanley Cup in triumph. I looked him in his eyes and said, “You don’t desire a silver trophy, old man, you desire the spirit it represents. The tradition, the emotions, the sportsmanship, the history, the regional pride. Well, let me tell you, stranger, one day I’m going to own that — all of it.” The whole bar thought I was mad that day. The bartender even asked me to leave. Well, if any of those low-lifes and barflies are still alive, let them check their Rogers-owned news channel tomorrow and we’ll see who’s really mad.

Tuesday
Twelve years. $5.3-billion. Exclusive English-language NHL rights. You know what that means? It means you don’t see a puck drop in this country unless you go through me. Every slapshot, every sweaty player interview, every playoff game is mine, and you helped me do it with your cable bills, your magazine subscriptions and your cell phone plans. What’s that? You think you can escape Rogers at a live game? Too bad you’ll be parking your tuchus at the Rogers Arena. Or did you forget I also own the Toronto Maple Leafs? Face it, it’s over: I own the whole sport. You want Wayne Gretzky in a dress? I’ll get him here in 15 minutes. I’ll put Gordie Howe in a leotard. Hell, I’ll make a coffee table out of Lester Patrick’s bones. You goons answer to me now.

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Wednesday
Hubert T. Lacroix, president of the CBC, came into my office unannounced, dropped to his knees, and begged for leniency. Tears streaming down his face, he pleaded for editorial control, for ad revenue, for Don Cherry. It was a pitiful sight. I motioned for my associates to hand him a drink (he requested chocolate milk). “I understand your situation, Mr. Lacroix,” I told him. “You found paradise in public broadcasting. You had a good trade, you made a good living. The government protected you and there were advertising dollars to boot. So you didn’t need a friend like me. Now you come and say ‘Rogers, give me justice.’ A billion dollar subsidy is not justice, Mr. Lacroix. My answer is no, but I would like to congratulate you on your network’s newfound freedom to pursue its core strengths of unexportable comedy and Canadian history biopics. I suspect we can be friends anew, as those interests will obviously not conflict with mine.

Thursday
With our Empire of Hockey still a little understaffed, I figured I would reach out for some extra hands. So, a hiring day it was. I reserved our corporate auditorium for the occasion and as I sat behind one-way glass, a steady stream of applicants mounted the stage to make their case. First up were Don Cherry and that sidekick of his, Ron Macklevoy or something. They squinted in the blinding spotlights as I spoke to them through booming speakers. “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said. “I have one question: How is a hockey puck like the St. Lawrence River? If you can answer correctly in two hours, Coach’s Corner survives. That is all.” Next up were the TSN crowd. They shuffled around nervously in ill-fitting suits, as usual. Bob McKenzie stepped forward and cleared his throat, but I hit the trap door before he had a chance to say anything. God, I love this job.

Friday
From our glassed-in rotunda up here on the 13th floor of Rogers headquarters, the people below look like ants. Investment executive ants. Taxi driver ants. Construction worker ants. Bicycle-riding ants. These ants are all so very different. They rarely interact, rarely make eye contact … many of them do not even share the same mother tongue. The only thing they share is hockey. Hockey is their escape, their fantasy, a small window of fulfillment in their cold, empty lives. And I am their only dealer. We’ll start slow; cheap introductory packages. Free live streaming of major games. But then, ever so slightly, we’ll tighten the noose. They’ll resist, of course, they’ll threaten to leave. But really, what are they going to do? Watch curling? Buy themselves a frilly scarf and start following the English Premier League? Spend time with their wives? Forget it; I own all of you more than you could ever understand. For the next 12 years, it’s Rogers Night in Canada.